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avalon Mar 2018
i am sitting and pressing green paint in misshapen swollen dots on my nail beds and thinking what if i **** this up? i am notoriously bad at fingernail painting and i ruin it and i am also afraid i will ruin myself by loving you.

yes, yes i hear you like a train. my head is all railroads and oceans, but i hear you puffing and whistling he does not love you, he would not love you, he loves her. long hair hazel eye i am not her i cannot be that girl i do not want to be his girl

but i want him to want me
oceans
trains
ryn Sep 2014
Elephant in the room*, shoo the hell away!
Don't stick around; I wish you wouldn't stay

Don't mess with my head, inciting all I feel
I don't need you here, I want to heal

Stop blaring in my ears, your noxious lies
I'm sick to the stomach with my pathetic cries

Resist flapping your gigantic ears
They simply just fan the rage in my tears

Quit blocking my view with your sheer enormity
Get out of my thoughts so better I could see

Halt your incessant skin rubbing against my sores
Chafing me raw on top of my existing scores

Pull out your pointy tusks, they poke and jab
I'm bent in many places; I don't need more stabs

Take your infernal rear out of my face!
I'm self-destructing, counting up the days

Cease your retaliation, leave with no protest
Go find and sit yourself in someone else's nest

Drop your intentions to stomp me broken
I'm mangled enough; almost misshapen

End this mindless rampage...please
Let me iron myself straight, in peace...

Dear elephant, have you gone?
Thank you for the blight of my time, you've spawned
Misshapen I, assume this Harmful Trot
Another Term to disappoint your Name
This I Bow; Multiply my Penance lot
Never again will I repeat this Shame
For Honest Will, assist your Son's Best Worth
Though I know spouting Flames is not the Way
Purse this Regret; And shake the Stubborn Earth
Then leave this Barker alone for him to stay
Yet hopefully, in Prayer bid my Tears
You may Consider my Innocent Plan
To Heal, Flow and Live; Like your Boy's Best Years
To prove Un-Condition by your demand.
I Understand, your Investment withdrawn
But Faith in Mother's Heart is best to own.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
ryn Sep 2014
I see you, monster...
In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes
They hold the blackest of stares
Nebulous swirling pits of demise

Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses
Every so often would curl into a snarl
Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses

Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag
You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets
Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag

Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair
Unkempt and gritty from your last meal
Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care

Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years
Wearing a face only a mother could love
Expressionless but it screams out your fears

**** jointed limbs that grew out of sync
Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque
Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks


I hear you, monster...
As you stalk your sleepless nights
Nocturnal ambience be your playground
Lurking in the dark; places with no light

Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent
Can barely notice when you're up and about
As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient

Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly
Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions
With which you paint a portrait so ghastly


I feel you monster...
Deep within the recesses of my heart
Destroying and distorting all that was pure
Testing my will till I should fall apart

You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience
Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations
I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence


I see you, monster...**
You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror
I await the day that you would finally dissolve
For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror
Still riding out the storm... Please bear with me
Scarlett Aug 2018
my clumsy limbs
                           held together with wet cement
              taught rubber bands
                         struggle to bind my flesh

I am but a mess of unimportant matter
another aimless being to fill the space    
unique for my twisted thoughts  
hysterically pleading with a calm face                    

speaking warped words i do not mean
         lips sealed like the lid on my boiling ***
                      dumping oppressed feeling into its contents
                                     bubbling over sweetly burning my raw skin hot

blistered I hide behind my cotton disguise
my misshapen body covered in a gruesome sweat                    
     sickening wounds throb for the sight of others                          
witness my plague of dry sobs and cigarettes                        

and so i shriek silently like my sister and father
hold my tongue saturated with sour emotion
my poorly constructed moth-eaten being
self sabotages in a desperate motion
the oppression of a disheveled being in hopes of better presentation of self for others
Sally A Bayan Aug 2018
..


Save from the hidden nests of birds,
it was the only one there...isolated,
like an isle...crested on the leveled
top of a gorge...its way down or up
was through a hand-carved series of
steps on its *****...at its front was a
curved gorge......one would think,
it was trying to cross over

the cottage was small, weather-beaten,
desolate......its wooden walls seemed to
have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed
its age...its having survived past storms....
from its window, the stream was seen,
and heard, flowing on and on between
these two precipitous valleys.

light came from the sun...and moon,
music was provided by the murmurs of
the forceful wind, the continuous flow of
water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves,
the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds'
singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy
rains on its roof...and countless other hymns
of nature......the dweller had heard them all...

beneath a lonely moon glow,
when nights were cold,
there hovered low 'pon its aged roof,
rounds of layered fog...like a series of
steps....like a stairway to the sky...
fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded
the cottage.....it vanished from view,
the two gorges and the stream, hushed,
in the dark loneliness of that secluded
spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped
inside....misshapen silhouettes...

in light and in dark,
the whistles of nearing and departing
boats....were wailing, haunting calls,
piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or,
maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage,
or...of the one living in that lonely cottage,
...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn,
willing to be found...longing to be reunited
.......with the light and warmth of love...

the cottage, the gorges, and the stream
would be loneliest,
without the cottage dweller...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 27th, 2018
"...no man is an island..."
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
the irises have passed,
their existence, entirety,
a three week, 21 day, gun salute,
to which I was witness to but four

the Kabbalist among us says Kaddish,
and a-Buddhist so-be-it,
celebrating the brevity cycle
of natural things,
and that death makes room for more

**** yelloe'd and black now,
these irises are now
misfits on a breezy, dancing summer lawn

today, shriveled and misshapen,
they compare and contrast
on a normative, glorious,
June Sunday that
picturesque presents
the living and the deceased,
side by side

all comrades,
all summer sundries
on a dancing grass blanket
half-graveyard battlefield, half-heaven

oft I have writ of the beach detritus,
the shells, the sun burnt *****,
a recycled funeral rectory where
no one utters prayers for the
no longer alive historical artifacts

what has this to do
with that human construct,
artifice of memory,
a string on the finger
of the mind,
a pausation, a man-made creation
to momentarily recall another of nature's cycle -
yours

Have children
Am a father
Had a father in my youthful days

this is a boy scout qualification medal,
marker of me as Expert,
permitting me  to commentary
with gravitas
having becoming a grandfather,
I enjoy superstar freedom
to opine inanely on such matters

of my father have I writ,
of my sons, those remain unseen,

likely neither will mark these day
with a telephone call
or an all-I-got-was-this-lousy-t shirt
gift of gall

I say that's ok for what else is there,
certainly not an unthinking, dismissive
whatever

it saddens me some for sure,
but it makes judge myself as human being
on a gradation of one to none

but more than this internal reflection,
I ponder this hallmark'd day,
as life cycle point notarized,
in verse and rhyme,
for that is what I do best

for before,
many father's day in the priory passed,
most unrecallable,
just another ceremonial checkmark,
habitually acquitted,
but somewhere in a drawer of shirts,
in a home I store stuff in,
I do believe, there are some cards
from decades past, that prove nothing,
other than life goes on,
and we best capture
what we can, as best we can...
with small, objet d'art of sorts

Perhaps one will call after all...
in any event,
to honor the dead,
to mark the existing,
the bannered ship's bell rung,
its sonorous sound,
notable and onerous,
fades as well

but man and animal,
plant and tree,
a living fraternal sorority,
who all look over my shoulder
as I compose on
that chair you see

they know,
for whom the bell tolls this day,
and why as well,
as we all pause and contemplate
where we are on this day,
on our own overlapping cycles
Chris Saitta Jul 7
She is the typesetter’s “e”

The once-rounded uncial script,
Unbroken like the solemn vow of a monk,
His whisper, a shepherd of words under the cowl,
Murmurations of the Holy Mother to the lambswool shroud of candlelight.

His candle-flock of dreams to some hill of penitent towers, war-cowed
And broken open like faith-unfended helmets, littering the ground,
With their unspeaking tassels in babbling pagan sound of wind,
That hill too, once-rounded bare under the glittering apostles of twilight.

In the abbeywork of air, calligraphy was a cipher of souls,
He unwrested demons from an inkwell of sunsets, smothered them in blotting paper,
Freed the incarnate whole to the book of hours, nib-pointed in quills and illuminated in gold,
Line by line, in Carolingian winding sheets, he returned the misshapen to the fold,
To the carpet page of home and the warm ligatures of their waiting women.
So the shutters of the heavenly house could blow light in slanted rays to a wilderness in storm.

But he never tamed the aero-elongated, descender of Troy in a “t,”
He never knew the unholiness of the underscore or fonts as ******,
Or the world unwilling to know itself in serif robes of ancient lore.
His life was a simple rounded-out syllable of one man,
Left in the muddied, unintelligible text of faith and war.

She is the typesetter’s “e” and now belongs to any hand.
For slide video:  https://www.instagram.com/p/BzmNoRhl5_w/?igshid=n0ukp97qre18

Uncial script was predominantly used between 400-800 AD and is a majuscule script (only in capital letters)
True uncial scripts were unbroken, meaning the pen wasn’t lifted.
Carolingian script was the predominant minuscule script between 800-1200 AD and was used in the Medieval ages.
Other calligraphy terms include “blotting paper,” “carpet page,” “ligatures,” and “descenders.”
M-E Apr 5
The first thing
I do
is looking at you
What can
I do
without looking
at you

looking at
this misshapen slide
that little children
abused; inside
in the playground

and the zit
that protruded on the
summit of your nose
and Oh, NO
it exploded as a volcano

looking
at this nevus that
made of your face
an hotel room
above your upper lip
and stayed there
for ever. No tips
and whatsoever

those two dishes
recepting and
looking at
two different
satellites

and all of your imperfections
and insecurities.

Just wash my face
and smile.
Sylvia Fénix Jun 2018
It wades down the end
From upon the hill, it descends
In it's raggedy, misshapen claw it desperately
clutches a tool,
or a weapon
The scythe sways idly from left
toward right
Brushing along the tips of
the field's innocent leafgreen, darkened
by the dusk of the night
Through the stealth, it's entire form is
blackened. Hidden from me

An occasional glimmer of moonlight
glances my eye, reflected from it's iron blade
It beams infrequently across it's figure
allowing me to spy it's features
Pinhole eyes, a dark but somehow bright white
gazing right through me as I into it
It's mouth was stitched up, but smirking toward me
fabric lips stained with crimson betrayal
I smile at the symbolism and accept
I feel a sharpness drawl against the flesh
below my chin
The movements holding the same creeping terror
But I stay unafraid
I close my eyes
I make my peace
I right my wrongs
I ready myself for the reaping

But then my eyes are open
And the field is bright
Daylight shone upon the roses and the daisies
with the foliage inbetween blazing green
For a moment I theorize a dream
That the encroaching monster
was simply an unconscious figment
But as my hand ghosted my neck
and felt light scaring over it's delicacy
My ideas drift towards the reason
why that thing left me standing

From across this strange place I see
perched upon a simple, smiling scarecrow
a bat
usually, this would be quite the worrying situation
especially as he was staring directly at me
But I could only smile at the black-winged one
And wave my own wing in it's direction
Turning around, I began to make my way elsewhere
In whichever direction destiny would push me next
Weightless, feeling free of my hand-crafted shackles
The cage I designed for myself broken
And you know what?
As I left that field

I think the bat might have smiled back
new chapter boyes and gorls
lets see where it takes us
slay Feb 12
I know you don't believe me
Still, I try to give you reasons.
Don't shut me out completely,
Cause I hope we break it even.

I thought I loved a demon, but his wings are like an angel's.
"He's softer than I took him for," I say as I file all his edges.
It's because I'm only human, but at the far end of the spectrum

I trust you thought this through then?
Cause I'm not as strong as I imagined.
I'm misshapen for whatever reason, probably the last one, but

I give you the benefit of all my doubts at my lowest, and
I hold my tongue because you don't deserve my coldest emotions when I'm more focused on how I'm hurting than if I hurt you, and

I wonder what he's thinking in his room alone or how the space is bigger.
If he hears me thinking thoughts towards him or if he's tuned them out forever, but
wherever he is, whatever he does, just know that I would never

My light

My love

Indebted to you, ever
never
I'm back on my island again.
Am I here by choice? I don't know.
The writing helps deal with the pain
But it also brings me back to what I've tried to forget.
Yet it makes me realize,
My island might be the same in mass,
All of the grains of sand are back,
Yet it remains misshapen
Twisted and turned,
Forever to be different.
The waves may have stopped,
But I can feel it on my skin,
Pounding and crashing away.
The lure of habit forever there.
Will it ever disappear?
I'm not sure of that answer right now,
So all I can do is live my life as it is.
I may be different, but I'll keep fighting.
Robert C Ellis Sep 2018
The muzzled brush strokes of words under a ***** slur slide down the leg, disregarding instruction.  
They have no function but
to guide onlookers along your causeway
so they
can locate the body slumped over the morning,
unwilling to part with the previous warnings.  
Her hands are all plumbing and architecture and they are misshapen
from years of pressing through the years,
grasping whatever is put before her.  
They clamp on his arm and pull him
Earthward.
My heart is forged with misshapen tinsel
resurrected from the smeltered mantle
of God’s attacks on the Earth
the heat of such Hatred removing dirt for
iron ore and crimson moisture beading into a pour  as
Kicked up starts of my own planet
awaiting the return of such madness,
the Symphony is the triumph of NATURE  over my humanity
The Dreams draw from dust the prye towers of landed dynasty
pixillated words heave with the genius of insanity
the Jazz itinerary grifting sin from
the soot of passing humainity
I wreck this bone archetype into the flesh
that grips it tight
hoping no one notices the molecules
for the light -
the tossable thoughts God lobs at the tumors
since we can’t remove them - the
vạn tuế of imagination
births impregnated cessations from truth,
water nymphs and simians aching
as angels of relief from their words herding horizon into carnival and destination  
The pearl precipice of REM sleep taking leapers higher and more vulnerable to tragedy
Do we leave earth, and slow days, when we sleep having escaped earth’s gravity
And does GOD scramble to keep our rot in its rhyme
What with Scripture and the blunt force of Time
outcroppings
You see, I know a girl
She's quite beautiful,
She's very funny.
She loves everyone
And has no mistakes to be made.
But my mind,
A desolate, dark plane
Has taken this joyful girl
And twisted her so.
She became a darkness to me,
My mind hated the fact that she made me feel joy.
A brutal pit I threw her into;
Each time I close my eyes
She dies

over...

and over...

and over...

By my hands
An endless bloodspatter,
A Hell with no escape.
I want to **** her so bad
But why?
What leads me to feel this way?
Why has her image been so bent and misshapen?
It's as if I put her in a funhouse,
Amidst all the mirrors,
Twisting and turning her.
She is trapped inside my mind,
A place where she will die,
Brutally,

over...

and over...

*and over...
My mind seems to bend things away from reality, darkening them. This still haunts me today, and I find it hard to look at or mention this person.
Kenechukwu Sep 2018
I am being pulled from left to right
Every candidate claiming to be the light
Promising heaven, earth and even twilight
Once they win they forget you and take flight.

Gun to our heads by the future leader
'Better vote wisely or become a casper'
Ballot boxes filled with forged paper
Hold your peace or it is a recipe for disaster.

If wishes were real, beggars would ride
Voted for a meal, while the politicians lied
my country is a deal, sold as a cheap bride
All they do is steal, it's time to say goodbye.

You know we are back to the embers'
there's always someone's blood they forget to remember
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
We are in a fine mess with honorable villions.
My view on elections and voting in some countries.
We, the invisible reasons for your problems, blind ourselves to the
dismal inevitability that we will
suffocate because you refuse to stop
the pillaging of the future for the sake of your own ******* lineage being able to further itself and potentially give you a chance to again close your mind and scream as loud as you can when confronted with your own toxicity

We, the ones who humbly take the bludgeoning from your self-proclaimed pious hand, know these chains are only on your bleeding wrists and ankles.

We, the silent and the broken, know Santa Muerta by the nicknames she had in college and all accompanying wildness she brought in her wake.
We still will stroke your hair while you
throw your tantrums and wail about what is and isn't fair on your deathbeds.

We will burn the mattress and all while cheering you on on your flight into the night sky you ignored for a lifetime.

We, the servants of streaming digits and stewards of bottled stardust, will create stories about how it wasn't your fault and how you shouldn't be hated for bringing the world crashing into the excrement of wasted potential so our children know there was a choice to be made.

We, the overly polite pariahs pry laughs and love and lust and learning from looming catastrophe like Burroughs writing Naked Lunch with a glassy eyed stare that burned holes in the veil hiding the tide of partially coagulated blood and ******* that YOUR world preached as milk and honey.

We, the proof in the moldy pudding still finding time to rot, will burn tobacco fields in your honor just to dance while getting drunk on the breaths you'll never waste.

We, the lovers of questions and haters of creeds, let tears stream in the hope that they are not considered part of our body's 75 percent while fantasizing about your ghosts seeing them and the dehydration they may be in spite of and quiet your tired old yelling and shaking of fists at the clouds when overcome by the slight sadness that whispers "its too late" lovingly into your ear.

We, the lovers, the thieves, the reviled, the *******, the witches, the junkies, the ******, the reptiles and worms under the rocks society deems unusable and misshapen, will be the ones lifting the crowns off your corpses and throwing them high as graduates do when full of a hope only ever dashed by themselves.

We, the drooling monsters you vehemently deny anything besides the cramped closets or the space between bed and floor in childhood bedrooms, will be the Valkyries to descend onto the blood-choked battlefield you set aside for your souls to suffer on and offer you respite in the form of soggy bread and wildflower honey while  ravens and jackdaws bicker over the eyes and fingers of those that once showed us how to ride a bike or drunkenly beat us beneath our favorite trees or touched us in dark rooms in ways that would chase Love away from the shadow of our hearts until we finally climbed high enough to see it all as someone screaming of war and bravery while running from the sound of steel biting steal because their protectors talked so highly of honor and duty that it seemed as if it were God and Adam touching fingertips on the arched ceilings of youth. that, then was painted on the crumbling walls of abandoned houses they would secretly indulge on the forbidden fruit soaking pages of a faded **** magazines or up skirts of blushing  girls who put on their mother's prudishness until fingers pushed past
cotton and virtue alike to the warm center they both melted in.

We, the unsung and numb, walk in spirals while the complexity you rebuked as devil-born becomes the sigils of yet-to-be kingdoms bringing about golden age after golden age in the distant mists rolling over hills and valleys of memories of moments yet to coalesce into rigid experience.

We, the eyes weeping blood atop crumbling pyramids, have seen the walls you want to build in futures dissolved in the winds blowing dust over the dream-roads we skip down and how it resembles the one you built to keep your heart from breaking from the pressing mass of what you can't file away as noise or heresy or communist propaganda;
We drew throbbing ***** and dripping ***** on all the blueprints we came across and tucked them back into the secret compartments of wardrobes and roll-tops passed down through generations.

We, the keepers of the singing stones you traded for cheap concrete, will embrace the tiny souls you neglected out of ignorance to the existential snake oil pitch you broke every tooth biting down on all because the salesman reminded you of your drunk father or mother imposing their wills like you make shadow puppets dance on peeling wallpaper in the silence that ensued after they had passed out on creaky couches reeking of Lucky Strikes and spilled ***** while the shine of the staticky T.V. set covered them like the blanket no one ever put over their slumbering forms because of those infinite lists of excuses used to skirt the skirmishes of showing any kind compassion even if they alone were sole witness to it.

We, the pieces of self the deathbed "you" sent hurtling backwards through time to shine lights on the siege seething at the gates of what you stand for, are only holding those lanterns to show you that fleeing is futile and your death is just a hallway with a door that leads to the knowledge that life is not a cell to watch time morph into tally lines scratched into cold stone as if they were epitaphs for the seconds bet and lost at the roulette table crafted from any slave ship the ocean never swallowed.

We, the flames mimicking those dancing girls you longed to have squeal under the idea of your thrusting masculinity amidst the graffiti on the bathroom stalls in seedy dive-bars or the paupers playing prince you follow giggling with hope in hand like a bouquet of baby's breath and daisies for that one day they would stop and turn and smile so handsomely that your knees would shatter against one another and wedding chapels would bend down to tie tin cans to bumpers of beat up Buicks and Oldsmobiles your fathers give dowry and the crowd could watch "just married" poorly written in shaving cream on the back window grow small until it disappeared over the horizon.

We, the dreamers, are tired of sleeping and are in need of a old tree to swing from, to bury our dreams like beloved pets under, and watch as it lets its leaves fall to the hungry earth that is more patient then anyone closed eyed and humming ancient syllables beneath crooked branches could ever be.

All the trees you climbed and kicked and fell in love under have died from too many hearts around intials being carved into them or were used to make fascist pamphlets you yourself passed out at churchs mistaking the mask with bone structure or the river for the people it swept to sea.

We are laughing;
like a loving mother at her clumsiness on display in her cackling child and not like the crowds gazing at the sideshow stage as the curtains pull back and stage lights illuminating John Merrick's flesh and the intricate dissonance it lent to minds.
Minds that afforded only sips of bliss as monotonous stints on factory floors but were preached about like they were some heaven-sent golden cobblestones laid lovingly all the way
to the beach where Heimdall will one day sound his horn, one foot feeling the grit of the edge of the world and the other washed clean for the grave we will all step in.

So, all these words, all these images, all of it is intended to be a moon so all the stagnate tide pools that have forgotten their origin and the freedom they used to give form to lesser forms they forage forgetfulness from.

We, the ones beneath you on the climb to the summit of our collective potential, beg you to think of something beside yourself when taking a ****.

It is not just ******* in the wind if there isnt wind and we are right below you and dying of thirst.

It is not an inalienable right if someone else is deprived of the same.

It is not Heaven's gate if the brilliant gild has a melting point or if it remains latched to any soul's approach.

It is not "liberal *******" or a myth if whole flocks of birds fall from the sky or schools of fish wash up on beaches while people snap photographs for their feed.

It is not "god" if love dispels it like smoke hanging in the kitchens your great grandmother sat in and told you about a witch shapeshifting into dogs without heads to scare drunks stumbling home because she was a ******* racist.

It is not just food if someone's organs fail from starvation that even the worms and flies are free from.

You wave your banners and let your war-horns echo and you wear your ignorance as armor.

We, the eaters of life and death, will chisel a name into stone and pick your bones clean if you think we should march to the sounds of drums and trumpets just because you were stupid enough to think it was anything other than your masters convincing you to whip yourselves ****** because "at least God hath been kind enough to give you a purpose" or "he works in mysterious ways".

**** that.

Look at what it has brought out of the swirling sea of " all that could be" while you write the same song about how shiny and numerous the scales of the prize are.

We are not responsible for pillaging God's bounty.

We are the bounty and our emptiness and lack of foresight are in jeweled bowls at your feet, but in your hubris you believe it to be the slaves that come to wash the dirt from between your toes.

We are Death and She is the wet-nurse that will give us intimacy to fertilize our hearts by refusing us her breast but turning our heads to your silhouettes shambling off the edge of existence far off in the distance only a decade or less could be confused for.

[AS ONE VOICE WE SING/SANG/HOWL:
Lux amor potentia restituant propositum dei in terris.]

As if it were as easy as holding the hand of a dying tyrant afraid they cannot the luminous terminus while wearing your father's face as a mask to trick radiant angels or the contortions of gods reeking of struck matches by those trembling and their swirling black hearts closed to the breeze carrying leaves celebrating their liberation and caressing a cheek they were too ashamed to kiss when opportunity was their ally.

We shouldn't hate these piles of skulls all parroting the same axioms to those who only show up to add another or leave an empty bottle turned into a candle holder, wax dripped down the neck and froze before any trace of tallow could finally unite with the dirt it longs to become one with;
icicles hanging from the eaves of abandoned asylums.

This place was supposed to be alot of things but that is what lead THEM to drown in the sound of buzzing bees, birdsong, and abundance in all directions.

I suggest we stop trying to squeeze it into a shoebox we scribbled Promised Land on and just let it be the open armed paradise it inherently is.
Let it be the heart and home as well as the hostile territory because it is only ever that and what we wont find in any Oracle's Prophecy.

I'll end my rambling with a question and it's answer.

How do you turn a police station into a hospital and a schoolhouse?

Burn it to the ******* ground.
sandra wyllie Feb 21
It Runs

as a rip in my stocking. It grows with
movement. We never sit still. We’re never
perfect. There are other ones, newer,

in-tact. They don’t get ripped. They sit
still, inside they’re cartons.  When they
come out they’re careful.  So careful they wear

gloves. To be worn is to be stretched and
misshapen into something else. The last result
was a giant hole. That pair was thrown

out. We’re too smart for that. We have
too much class. We can stretch without tearing.
Sylvia Fénix Dec 2018
there's a line down the middle of my soul
sometimes i travel to its meeting point
i'm not sure why
but i do it anyway

i walk past the white leaves and pristine grasses of my side
and take a seat under the grey cherry blossom
and upon the grey circle which formed
when my spirit split in two

i see her moving from the black side
she comes here too, from her sullied home
i'm not sure why
but she does it anyway

she steps through the dark sludge
also bringing herself to this middle patch
the ooze stains it's grass before immediately clearing
blossoms falling to cover it's terrible corruption

sitting there with our backs to the tree
staring out into our own separate worlds
she speaks to me
"Do you still think you're the good person here?"

i growl under my breath
who does this disgusting creature think she is?
of course i am, of course i do
and my wordless response is certainly understood

"Can't say I expected much else. You really wanna stay like this forever?"
my anger simply melts into boredom with this
"of course i don't. why would i?"
she laughs at me

"Because you seem to be the one keeping this mess going."
suddenly, without even myself expecting it
i snap, turning around to see her lounging against the bark
"why? because i won't willingly let you and your sick ways back into my mind?!"

she pauses for a moment
almost looking sad, a frown barely visible on her misshapen face
she turns her head to the side and opens those broken eyes
and cracks a cocky, stomach churning grin

"You really don't get it, do you?
We did that stuff, not me. We're equally guilty, missy.
Sooner you accept that, sooner this mess gets cleaned up.
Cause all banishing me does is keep you from feeling whole again."

i say nothing
she turns around and loses the smile once more
before standing up and walking away
taking her disgusting form and her wrong words back into her hellscape

hopefully she doesn't come back again
I'll come back
Because I want things to be different this time
2017 was a mess
2018 was messier
All because of my mistakes
I'll make sure 2019 is different
That's a promise to myself
Because I'm the not the same person that I used to be
I promise, whatever that's worth anymore
LVQuigley Aug 2018
i am not who i was before,

i am changed
i am distorted,
misshapen
skewed
marred.

yet my skin looks the same.
T daniels Oct 2018
He sleeps while millions
of words are spoken-
flattened by a dream.

He stood at the summit
where boundaries don't exist
and restless souls glare
with eyes like fire.

No, this was the real world!
the metropolitan neon,
with its machinery, bellowing insidious vapors.

A dream intermingled
with this misshapen terrain.

the emerald city atop the summit-
cracked windows
and small tenements.
a dream within a compacted dream.
I had a dream a few weeks ago that felt unbelievable real, and this poem was inspired by that experience. Its one of those dreams that are like everyday life, and you awake to realize it was all in your head..
Jordan Hudson Sep 2018
It isn't to far before I will be with the rest
Cruising and being so blessed
Wind blowing fresh air through my hair
It is only a matter of time and I'll be there
One step closer, I already went up where I need to be
I'll get full potential soon, patience is the key
So much that I could do
So much to believe it is true
The next question where will I be next
Those thoughts make me more than perplexed
I can't even imagine although I have ideas
I guess we will have to see where my life is
At that time when the times comes
I would guess but I'd hate to ruin the outcomes
Predicting the future will jinx what could happen
Then my life would be messed up and misshapen
Some day I will be free
More free than anyone could be
Maybe that's an exaggeration but it will feel that way
I won't even be able to express or convey
The way it will be feel
To be open road and behind the wheel
I know others know but no one is the same
Every one of us would have a different claim
I can't wait to drive

— The End —